


Notes in Constellations

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Stars and Wings [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Neighbor au, mentions of period blood, musician au, no smut just vague mentions of it, trans!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:43:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean's just moved to America from France, and he's kinda hoping his neighbor will just move out.<br/>Jean's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes in Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> _A soulmate is someone who has locks that fit our keys, and keys to fit our locks. When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are; we can be loved for who we are and not for who we're pretending to be. Each unveils the best part of the other. No matter what else goes wrong around us, with that one person we're safe in our own paradise._  
>  \-- Richard Bach
> 
> Feather Theme – Alan Silvestri  
> Theme from Schindler’s List – John Williams  
> Pretty Good Year – Tori Amos  
> Clair de Lune – Claude Debussy  
> Lover I Don’t Have to Love – Bright Eyes  
> The Scientist – Coldplay  
> Brahms’ Lullaby – Johannes Brahms  
> The Deer – Woodkid  
> Song of the Caged Bird – Lindsey Stirling  
> Notes in Constellations – Chiodos

I sigh as I sit on my couch, the only thing in its proper place against the wall.

At least it’s finally quiet.

I look around myself, at the furniture strewn at awkward angles and the boxes piled and scattered around the room, and consider unpacking.

“ _Merde_.” I should’ve made my friends help me unpack or something.

I wish they’d stayed a little longer.

That’s a lie. I don’t wish that at all. Listening to their rapid-fire English after four years back home in France had driven me up a wall. I love my friends, really, I do, but dear god do they talk fast.

I do too, I guess. Just, it’s usually in French.

I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve started brushing up on my English again the moment I decided to move to America for good. Hell, I should’ve kept up with my American friends better after my year as an exchange student, or actually practiced every so often. That would’ve been helpful.

“ _Je suis idiot_.” And now I’m talking to myself. Go fucking figure.

Not even in English, either. Nope, I’m talking to myself in French, because apparently acknowledging my own stupidity and the need to practice English isn’t enough to actually get me to practice it.

I rub my eyes like a fucking kid.

And then I hear piano music.

I stare at my hands for a second, confused, because I’m sure as hell not playing music, where – oh. That’s right. This is a duplex. There’s another person on the other side of the wall behind me, and – I frown. Did the CD just skip?

No, no, that’s not it at all, I realize with rising excitement. The person is playing piano, that’s an actual piano, a nice one from the sound of it, and whoever’s playing is damn good, holy shit.

I don’t recognize the song, but then they go through a bridge and the tempo slows and this one I recognize, _Clair de Lune_ , and I hop up and look around – where the hell is my violin – but it’s probably somewhere in my bedroom, and I won’t be able to hear the piano from in there and it’ll take me half an hour to dig the thing out, so I sit my ass back down on the couch, close my eyes, and thank god that I live next to a musician.

He plays through songs I know, for the most part, and my hands itch for my bow. It’s not until he starts playing _Forest Gump_ , though, that I give in.

I jump up, but if I leave he’ll just keep playing without me, but my English isn’t good, or I don’t remember it well enough, or – I knock on the wall. “Hold?” No, fuck, that’s not it, what’s _wrong_ with me – “Wait? Please?”

“Sure. Yes.” Muffled, but clear enough.

I dash into my room. Which box did I put it in? Why are there so many boxes in here? I didn’t bring all this stuff. I _know_ I didn’t send this much stuff down here. Did I? Fuck. Maybe I did. Where’s my damn violin?

I find it in a corner.

God, I hope my neighbor hasn’t given up on me yet.

I skid into the living room and knock on the wall. “Both of us play?” Shitty, shitty, bad, bad English. Embarrassing. I didn’t spend a year here for _this_. “A… duo?” No, fuck, that’s not – “Duet.” That’s it.

“I – Yeah. I’ll count it out?”

Count it out? Count what – oh. Oh. Duh. “Yeah.”

“1, 2, 3, 4…” I start in when he does, softly, just the background. Honestly, in the original version, I don’t think the violin comes in until later, but I never had someone who could play the piano part, so I used to fuck with the piano sheet music until I could play it on violin.

Also, my poor baby just flew over from France, and it doesn’t sound great. It’s being a little testy.

All the same, by the time we get about a minute in, I’m grinning. My mom loved this song, listened to it all the time. I fell asleep to it more times than I can count. I can feel the tension leaking out of my muscles as I play.

My neighbor’s a good pianist, too. I can hear him working with me, falling into the background where the violin rises and rising where the violin fades.

“Thank you,” I say when I let my bow lift. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re an amazing violinist,” he offers.

I huff. “You are an amazing pianist, as well.”

“Thank you. We should do this again, some time.”

I grin. I would love to play with him. “I am a fan of _Clair de Lune_. But we should do it next time. I have to unpack.” I can hear how stilted my speech is, how _awkward_ it is. He probably thinks I’m stupid.

“All right. Good luck.”

“ _Merci_.”

That’s French.

There’s silence on his side, and I wait for him to say something about how I should speak English, or about French people being rude, or –

“ _De rien_.”

Does he - “ _Parles-tu Français ? T’es de France ? Tu me comprend ?_  “

“What?”

My heart drops. “Ah. You don’t speak French, then.” Dammit.

“No. I only had a couple years of it in college. Was never very good at understanding it.”

“Oh.” Fuck. “Maybe I can teach you.”

Why the hell did I just offer to teach him? He doesn’t want to –

“I’d like that.”

Wait, what? I can’t teach someone French, I nearly failed French in second year – “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Later.”

I’m never talking to him again.

I will avoid the living room like it’s someone else’s house. I’m not going anywhere near that wall. What if he actually expects me to teach him French? What if he doesn’t, and just said that to humor me? Does he think I’m stupid? Weird? Is he going to ask me stupid questions? If he asks me if I know how to bake a baguette, I’m moving. Actually, if he talks to me again, I’m moving. Maybe I should move now, just to prevent anything awkward from happening. Maybe I should move to Mars. It’s probably nicer there.

I set up my radio. Connie made fun of me for this, once, but right now, it’s playing American music and the radio hosts are speaking English and I need it, I need to get back into English mode, even if I have to use an ancient radio.

Unpacking is a pain in the ass, and fifteen minutes after I start, I find myself sitting in a pile of boxes, trying to figure out when the hell I sent all of this over, and finding English thoughts creeping in with the French ones.

It’s more important that I speak English properly than that I unpack, right now. I can unpack whenever, but I need to be able to speak English.

I recline onto the boxes, hope nothing’s breakable, and listen to some woman named Diane who’s playing love songs for long-term couples right now, since Friday nights might not be so romantic for them anymore.

I don’t wake up until 2 in the morning.

To be fair, 7 P.M. here is 1 A.M. in France. So it was totally normal for me to fall asleep around that time.

Unfortunately, I fell asleep on top of a bunch of boxes, which aren’t conducive to a great rest.

I switch off the radio and flick off the lights and trip over thirteen boxes on my way into bed, where I fall back to sleep fully-clothed, another genius move on my part.

I blame my exhaustion, stomach cramps, and bad decisions for my fuck-up early the next morning.

I hear _Radioactive_ playing, at top volume, with a man who isn’t the lead singer of _Imagine Dragons_ singing at the top of his lungs, and instead of putting a pillow over my head and passive-aggressively hating my neighbor until he stops, I do the stupid thing and _go downstairs_. Into the living room. Where I swore I would never go again. And as I lean against the wall, I knock on it. Which is stupid. Because it gets his attention, and he stops, and now he probably hates me, and my stomach still hurts and you know what? I don’t care if he hates me. Just as long as he stops.

And then I open my goddamn stupid fuck-up mouth and say: “Do you have a habit of playing loudly at too-fucking-early in the morning?”

It’s times like these when I question my ability to live on this earth.

“No. No, I don’t.” Oh thank god. “I’m sorry. I was – hoping you’d be awake already. Usually I don’t get up til eleven or twelve.”

Oh, _hell_ yes. Does that mean he’s jobless? Poor? On the verge of getting evicted? Can I wait him out? “Do you have a job?” I probe.

“Yeah.” Goddammit. “A night job, though. Seven to two, instead of nine to five.”

A night job? “Why. Are you awake?” I groan.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Oh my god. “Can you sleep now?”

“I think I woke myself up more, actually.”

Oh, no. Oh no. Fuck this. I am not having a conversation with Insomniac McNightJob over there. I’m not. I am too tired. It is too early. My stomach is trying to rip itself out of my body. I just want peace and silence, is that too much to ask? “I guess I should be depacking.”

“De – you mean unpacking?”

I push away from the wall. “Shit. I said it right yesterday, I know I did. I’m too tired for this.”

He _keeps playing_.

I’m ready to rip his head off.

But then he plays _Clair de Lune_ and fuck, my violin’s in my hands and I’m playing. Silence can go fuck itself, this was one of the first songs I ever memorized and it’s special.

“I thought you were supposed to be unpacking?” My neighbor asks. Condescendingly?

I groan. “Too tired. Do you know the theme song from _Schindler’s List_?”

“No.”

“Damn.” I made it my personal mission to learn that song when I was fifteen. My mom took me to see an orchestra play John Williams’ music. The First Violin stood up there and put bow to strings and by the time he was done, I was crying. That was it. I was sold.

“I’ll learn it.”

What? Wait – “You don’t have to.” Oh my god. Does he think he has to put in time for me? Is he going to learn it and hold it over my head?

“I want to.”

Is he lying? There’s no way he’s telling the truth, right?

But – we play pretty well together. It would sound awesome.

My head falls against the wall. “Thank you. I’d give you sheet music, but I only have the violin part.” Also, I don’t want to see him in person. I don’t want him to see _me_ in person. I don’t – just. No.

“It’s fine. Did you just hit your head against the wall?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Fuck if I know. “Stomach ache.” It’s true enough.

“Eat something bad?”

Does he actually _care_? I groan. “I forgot how long it takes to adjust to the cheese here.” Well, no, I didn’t. It’s hard to forget spending your third night in a new place with your head in a toilet bowl. Not even for a good reason. Just because _cheese_. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“You forgot? You’ve been here before?”

I nod.

Wait. “Oh, shit, you can’t see me nodding. Fuck, these walls are thin, I forgot…  I was an exchange student, here, after my last year of high school. Learned English, was told I was incredibly good, went home, didn’t bother to practice – shit, didn’t bother _practicing_ – and forgot most of it. Sure as hell didn’t realize it, though. Got a job at Chanel ‘cause I’m bilingual, they can stick me here and bam, translator, and just out of college, too, so they can pay me shit.” I sigh. “Don’t mind, though. It’s nice to be back here. And I’ve got a nine-to-five job that pays relatively well. And it’s a good enough opportunity, I can actually expect a raise. And even if this place is shit, well, it’s close enough to work, it’s cheap, and now that you’ve woken me up with _Radioactive_ of all songs, you’re not allowed to yell at me for playing violin.” I laugh. Holy shit, he can’t yell at me for playing violin. He’s not allowed to have problems with my noise levels. “Now that I think about it, it’s a pretty good place to be.”

“Good to know I helped calm your anxieties,” he says, and is that actually laughter I hear? Does he have a sense of humor?

“Thanks for that – what’s your name?”

“Marco.”

Marco. “I’m Jean.”

“Good to meet you, Jean.”

He says my name _properly_.

Maybe he’s not so bad, after all.

“Good to meet you too, Marco. So what about you? Why are you in this shithole?”

“It’s not a _shithole_ , per se –”

Heh. He’s in denial. “Marco,” I croon. “Marco. I am having a conversation with you _through the wall_. We’re not even having communication problems. I haven’t even had to ask you what you were saying, and I’ve barely spoken English in _four years_. I am flat broke and I still have enough money to pay rent for this place. This is a shithole.”

“Well, when you put it like _that_ … yeah. I’m. I play piano in a local bar.” Damn. If I make friends with him, can I get free drinks? “Not sure what my title would be, but I’ve been playing there for five years, since I was a junior in college. I like it here. It’s close enough to walk to, and my income is so stable I may as well be salaried. Good tips, too. Living here instead of somewhere nicer means I don’t really need a car, so I don’t really need gas, and the rent is cheap enough that I’ve got money leftover at the end of the month. Can get my piano tuned twice a year and still have money to go down to the beach for a weekend every so often. It’s not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, and the only thing I’ve got that’s worth anything is my piano, and I’d _love_ to see someone try and get it through the door. So it’s not bad.”

I withhold my own personal thoughts on the safety of this neighborhood. “Does your family live around here?”

“Nah – about an hour away. Part of the reason why I got a job off-campus as well as on campus while I was in college was so I had train money for when I wanted to go home. Did you mind moving so far away from your family?”

I purse my lips. Loaded question. My mom cried, multiple times, before I left. I miss her. I miss my dad, too. I miss France, a lot.

Not enough to go back, though. “A little. Not much, though. I’ve already done it for a year, and honestly, if I can’t save up the money and vacation time for a trip home, I’ve gotta rethink my lifestyle.” Speaking of which, my lifestyle currently involves living in a messy shithole. I groan. “I really should unpack now, though. Thanks for waking me up, I’d have slept all damn day otherwise.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck with unpacking.”

“Thanks.” I stand and stub my toe on a box. “ _Ow_.” Shit. Shit. Why do stubbed toes hurt so _much_? “Fuck.”

He keeps playing.

Sometimes he plays songs I know, songs with lyrics, and I sing along. I try to keep it down, though. No one wants to hear my dumbass French accent singing along to American songs.

Miraculously, he actually stops playing after a couple hours, and he must’ve gone upstairs, because there’s blessed, beautiful silence. I’ve done enough unpacking for one day. I deserve a break.

I drift in and out of sleep for hours.

I hear Marco come downstairs later – I can hear him cooking dinner, if I go stand in the kitchen – but I’m not hanging around long enough to see if he’ll play piano again. I get my ass dressed and into my car. The only food I’ve got is what my friends brought: eggs, a fruit basket, chicken fingers, and a bottle of vodka, courtesy of Eren. Nice, but not enough. Gotta go grocery shopping, terrifying as that is.

I have no idea where the grocery store is.

I drive around for twenty full minutes before I find it, a five minute drive away, huge and teeming with people.

I hope my credit card works.

I should’ve called to check. Fuck.

Should I call now?

I can hear myself stuttering, French accent winning out over American, forgetting every English word I’ve ever known as I – nope, not calling.

What if it gets declined, though? What if I have to stand there, swiping my card, while everyone around me stares at me and gets pissed at me for holding up the line? Do I have cash? I flick open my wallet. There’s a fifty in there. Right. Can’t buy more than fifty bucks worth of food. If the card doesn’t work on the first swipe, I pull out cash and pay cash. It doesn’t matter if it’s my emergency bill. This is an emergency.

Where are baskets? I don’t want to use a cart. I’m not going to buy enough stuff to fill a cart. People’ll look at me weird if I walk around with an empty cart.

I find the baskets next to the door. Of course. It takes a second to pull the top one out of the death grip of the one below it, but I manage.

I add up prices in my head. A box of cereal for $3. A gallon of milk for the same. Breakfast for the week, done. I start work on Monday. I’ll have to bring lunch. Do people usually bring lunch? I don’t want to go out to eat, I’ll have to talk to people, and I’ll have to sit alone. I’m bringing lunch. I don’t want to look fat, though. Can’t bring too much. Apples? Seven of them. Thank god there’s a scale. Comes out to $10. I’m only at sixteen bucks, not bad. An apple isn’t a lunch, though. Trail mix? What the hell did I used to eat for lunch? I get the cheap store brand. $4 for a pound of pasta. I get two. That should last me the week, right? Shit. Sauce and cheese are expensive. I get the cheap brands, though, and that cheese is going to _kill_ me. I’m going to puke for a week.

I stand in line, waiting for the verdict.

The total comes to $46.89.

Within the $50 limit.

Thank God.

Should I act confident when I swipe the card? At least then it’ll look like it’s a problem with the card, not my bank account. On the other hand, maybe it’ll look like I’m really out of touch with my finances? “Uh – I’m not sure if this card has been activated yet, but I’ve got cash if it doesn’t work,” I assure the cashier, who looks bored as hell and probably doesn’t care.

I swipe it.

The machine says it’s processing.

It’s taking a long time. Is this too long? How long does it normally –

It went through.

Holy shit.

Thank god.

“Here’s your receipt,” the cashier says, entirely unaware of the relief currently coursing through my body.

“Thank you.”

The house is silent when I come home.

I don’t think Marco’s there? He said work starts at 7 for him, right? It’s 7:04. He’s not there.

I collapse on my couch and moan into the armrest.

Didn’t take long for this shithole to turn into home.

I turn on the radio as low as it can go and go back to my old habit of dissecting the grammar and vocabulary of the radio hosts: what’s proper grammar, where they could’ve used a better word, why they speak the way they speak, and so on. Helped me learn English when I was an exchange student, and it can help me fix it up now.

I turn off the lights and head up to bed around eleven.

 

Of course, going to bed early means I’m up by nine, and a shower and a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch later, I’m itching to play violin.

But I haven’t heard any noise from Marco’s side.

He worked until 2, he deserves his sleep.

I try unpacking a little more, but christ, I don’t want to. I get fully dressed, binder and everything – except the packer, I’m not _actually_ going anywhere – so I can feel like I’ve been productive, but it doesn’t help much.

Eleven rolls around and fuck it, that’s long enough. He woke me up yesterday, it’s time for payback. I sit on the couch, put violin to neck, and make my baby sing.

I don’t hear Marco until he starts playing piano.

I’m a little surprised – he didn’t even ask me to stop – but he’s improvising, and it sounds really cool, and he lets me do my thing when I’m doing it and when I give him a chance to do his thing, he fucking takes it.

Shit, this sounds cool.

I wanna play for hours, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to fuck it up if we keep going, so I slow down a little, doing my best to indicate that the end is nigh, and he _speeds up_ , he’s going to be really shocked when I stop – but – then he stops, right on the beat, exactly at the same time as I do, and I laugh. _Shit_ that’s cool. He read me like a book, goddamn, knew exactly what I was doing and _killed_ it. “We play well together,” I say as I lean back.

“Yeah. Actually – wow, this is out of nowhere,” he begins, and that’s _never_ good, I hate it when things come out of nowhere, how am I supposed to prepare – “but I was wondering if you wanted some help unpacking?” Who would want to help me unpack? “I could come over and help.” Oh my god, does he mean _him_? “Could bring food, too, if you don’t have any.”

Food. _Free_ food. On the other hand, _company_. My neighbor. Fucking up the whole ‘don’t talk to my neighbor’ thing once and for all.

But then, it’s probably best to be on good terms with him. And he’s promising to help me unpack.

“Yeah, that would be cool, if you don’t mind helping me unpack all my disorganized shit.”

He laughs. “Sounds like a plan. Gimme twenty minutes, though, I need to shower.”

“Got it.” I should go put my packer on. But my pants are baggy as hell, and my shirt is long – actually, I look like a wreck, I’m in my comfy clothes, what I wear on days I don’t have to see anyone.

I should get dressed.

But my couch is really, really comfy, and I don’t want to move.

So half an hour later, when he knocks on the wall, I am _so_ not ready, and also, I should _definitely_ put in my packer, oh my god, _please_ tell me he’s not on his way over, I need, like, two seconds –

“Gonna grab food and come over, want anything special?”

Ok, I’ve got a minute, that’s plenty of time, I think, if I get going now – I stand. Wait. Will he be able to hear me a foot or two away from the wall? I turn. “Nah, whatever you’ve got is –” _oh my god there is blood on the couch there is blood on the couch who died is there a dead animal in here was that me who screamed –_

“Jean? Jean, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m –” Oh my _god_ my fucking period came a day early. _Fuck_. “Sorry, Marco, I don’t think you can come over today.” Oh my god, oh my god, I _hate_ stressful situations, they _always_ fuck up my period, I should just get on hormones, I should just find a doctor and –

“Well, obviously, did you break something? I can call 911 –”

“ _No_ ,” I nearly yell, “Don’t – don’t worry. I just –” Just what? Just _what_? “Scared myself.” Is that really the best I could do? _Scared_ myself?”

“Jean, you just _screamed –”_

“Yeah, I know, I scared myself,” I repeat. Oh my god, what if he doesn’t buy it? Is my door locked? What if he comes in?

“If all you did was scare yourself, then why can’t I come over there? Jean, what’s –”

“Marco, I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you, but –” Do I _really_ , though? “Okay, that’s a lie, I don’t want to tell you.” Why would I _say_ that? “I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to trust me. Please, _please_ don’t call 911.” Trust me? Why would he trust me? Does it matter? If he calls 911 and I have to explain to them that I got my goddamn period I’m actually leaving, I am leaving this planet, I’m exiting this world once and for all, goodbye Marco, that’s it for me, you’ve killed me.

“Is there a dead body in there?” He laughs eventually.

I huff. “Heh. No. If there was, I’d make you come over here and help me bury it.”

“You’d be open about that, but not whatever’s actually going on?”

Oh my god can’t he _drop_ it already?

Maybe he’ll drop it if he doesn’t get an answer.

I need to clean up, burn my pants, and then clean the damn couch. I sent cleaning supplies over, right? I knew I’d need them at _some_ point. Well, that, and my mom was very insistent about me having them. God bless mothers.

I scrub at my pants, scrub at my underwear, find my stupid goddamn period undies and my stupid noisy fucking pads, and give up. I’m walking around in my underwear for the rest of the day. I’m not going anywhere and I don’t give a shit.

I dig some spot shot and paper towels out of an unopened cardboard box in the bathroom and head downstairs.

Maybe I should just throw the whole entire couch in the trash. Just get it out. How well can I actually clean this off?

I grab a glass of cold water from the kitchen. Will this actually dry? Fuck if I know.

I’m scrubbing at a soaked couch cushion when I hear: “What are you doing?”

I make a weird-ass noise, but no, it’s just Marco. There’s no one in here. “Cleaning, christ –”

“I’m not usually one to tell people how to live their lives but if you ever have sex on that couch, you should know that I _will_ hear it, and I _will_ tell you to quiet down.”

“Jesus, Marco.” I’d have to get drunk out of my mind to bring someone home. “I promise I’ll stick to the bedroom.”

“Great.” Is that sarcasm? A joke? Is he serious? How the hell am I supposed to tell?

And then _oh my god_ are those the opening notes to _Schindler’s List_?

They are! Oh my god _oh my god_ he’s learning to play it, and it sounds absolutely awful, but that’s okay, that’s fine, he’s learning to play it and it took me nearly a month to get it down I can’t blame him for having issues the first time.

He plunks away at the piano keys as I clean. When I finally decide it’s as clear as it’s gonna get, I spray the fuck out of it with spot shot, drop a bunch of paper towels and a box full of who-knows-what-but-it’s-heavy on it, and pick up my violin.

I play the first few measures with him, trying to give him a feel for what it’s going to sound like, but after the second time, he speaks.

“Jean? Can you play the song? I wanna make sure the notes I cut out are covered by yours.”

“Yeah.” I play it through, trying to go slow. I want him to hear every note that flies off my violin. My baby complies, singing loud and strong, and when I finish, Marco says “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

He falls silent.

I have no idea what he’s doing.

Does he expect me to stay here? Would he laugh if he found out I was sitting here? Am I supposed to leave while he practices?

I sit on the couch, slowly, carefully, and manage to avoid the creaky spot.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up to Brahms’ Lullaby. It’s beautiful, though.

Marco plays for _two hours_. I almost want to get up. How long is he gonna play? Should I sit here the whole time? I hum along to the ones I know, so he’s gotta be able to hear me, but he doesn’t say anything. I find myself tapping out the beat, too. It’s been a long time since I heard someone play this well. I’d pay to hear him play, honestly. I wouldn’t feel like such a creeper if I’d paid.

He stops eventually. I’m torn between relief that I can leave and sadness that he _stopped_. “ _Merci beaucoup_.”

“ _De rien_.”

I knock on the wall, stand, and head upstairs.

I should probably do something productive. Tomorrow’s my first day at work, and I probably won’t get much unpacking done for the rest of the week.

I end up switching games on my phone for the rest of the night.

Productivity at its finest.

 

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just my first day. They won’t expect too much of me. Maybe they’ll even let me leave early. No big deal. I’ve done firsts before, so many times I lost track. First day of high school, first day in America, first day of American school, first day back home, first day back here, first day working in a bakery, first day of university. This isn’t my first job. They hired me, they’re not gonna fire me on the first day. I can _totally_ do this. The bathroom situation isn’t gonna be a problem.

That doesn’t change the fact that I keep forgetting to breathe, and honestly, I don’t think I can pull in a deep breath anyway. I’m gonna puke. I’m not gonna puke. But I’m gonna puke. Maybe my binder is too tight? No reason for that, though. It’s not like I can tie it more tightly or anything. I tug at it anyway. Nothing happens, of course, because it’s not the binder, it’s me and my own fucked-up self.

Should I leave now? I should leave now. Better to get there early than late, and I’ve never driven there before. If I don’t leave now I might get lost.

I pay strict attention to my GPS. Why didn’t I look up directions last night? I should’ve looked up directions last night so I knew where I was going. It’s not like I did anything important last night. Do I _want_ myself to fail? Shit, I wish I could just fail. I wish I could just let it all go and curl up in a cave somewhere and die peacefully in my sleep. Shit, I’m thinking too much, I’m thinking too much. No need for thoughts. Just pay attention to the road or else someone’ll hit me. Then I’d be _really_ fucking late to my first day of work, _fuck_. I could call them, tell them what happened. But I don’t want to call. I don’t even know who I would call, if I had to. And that would make an awful impression. Their new guy can’t even get to work without getting in a car crash. They’d fire me before I ever got there.

I get there twenty minutes early.

Is this too early? I don’t want to stand there awkwardly because they weren’t expecting me. Is the building even open? Do I go in through the front door? Is there a special worker’s entrance? Why didn’t I ask these questions when they told me I got the job? Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s because I can’t fucking talk on the phone, because I’m fucking horrible at _basic_ , simple things in life, fucking _useless_. Fifteen minutes until I’m supposed to start. It’s gonna take me a few minutes to walk into the building, a few minutes to get set up. I’ll be able to start a few minutes early. Make a good first impression.

I get out of the car. Lock it behind me. Feel my legs shake with every step. It takes thirty seconds to get inside, the front door is open. I shouldn’t have left the car so early. I should’ve waited longer. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. The receptionist is staring at me.

“Hi, I’m Jean Kirschtein? The new –”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, they told me you were coming. My name’s Nanaba.” She holds out her hand. I grasp hers and shake. My hand’s probably sweaty and gross and she’s letting go and I withdraw my hand probably too fast I just made it awkward and she’s pretending like I didn’t but Christ, I did. I did. “You can head up to the third floor, first door on the right. Petra’s office. She’ll be your boss, and she’ll take care of you.”

I smile at her. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome! Good to meet you!”

“Good to meet you too!” I turn away and oh my god oh my god she touched me she touched my hand and I don’t want to think about it but I’m thinking about it and I can still feel her hand there and it’s like a poison seeping into my bloodstream I should’ve prepared for this I should’ve known this was coming I’m a professional now I’m supposed to shake hands with everyone, I should’ve known, but I get in the elevator and smear my hand over my pant leg so hard it feels like I’ve scraped half my skin off.

Am I supposed to knock on the door before I go in? This is Petra’s office, right? It says so on the plaque next to the door. I’m not just imagining that, right? No, no, it’s there. I don’t want to just walk in. But I don’t want to stand there and wait for her to let me in. I’m _supposed_ to be here. They’ve been expecting me. No reason to fear. I glance down at myself. Everything’s in place, as far as I can tell. I lift my hand and knock and lower it to the doorknob and twist and there’s a woman with bright red hair sitting in a chair next to a fucking giant with blonde hair and she grins at me. “Mr. Kirschtein?”

“That’s me,” that’s the stupidest word choice I’ve ever made but she just grins wider and I smile back, the fakest smile I’ve ever put on but fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. I’ve spent my whole life faking it. If there’s anything I can do, it’s fake it.

I go back to my high school days. Compose my face into an attentive expression, brow smooth, gaze sharp. Eye contact. Doesn’t matter which eye I look into. Either one will do. Doesn’t matter don’t think about it just get through this, get through this.

She explains that I’ll be translating ads and emails, acting as a go-between for people from both countries. She laughs that it’s not a job that needs a seasoned professional, and with my experience, I’m the perfect candidate.

The door opens and I glance over to see possibly the most terrifying man I’ve ever seen in my life. He looks like he’s going to kill me.

“Levi! Mr. Kirschtein is here, I’ve been explaining his job. Are you ready for him?”

Is he – what does that mean? What does that mean? Am I going to be –

He glances at me. “Yeah, I’m ready for him. Rivaille Ackerman. Levi, for short. Mr. not necessary. Do you actually want to be called Mr. Kirschtein, or…?”

Do I? No. Should I? I feel like that’s not the right route to go. Nanaba, Petra, Levi. The only person using their last name here is me, and suddenly I feel out of place. “Jean would be better.”

He snorts. “Good.” He turns to Petra. “If Kenny emails me one more time, I’m going to personally fly out to France and strangle him. Get on his case. I’m not here for him.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying. He’s very persistent.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He turns around without waiting for a response and leaves. Am I supposed to follow him? I think I am. I step after him and no one stops me. I follow him out the door. Should I walk next to him? I don’t want to seem above myself, but I don’t want to follow after him like a lost puppy. I lengthen my strides to match his. I’m sorry. Please be nice to me. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I’ll do better in the future.

“Basically, our job is to make sure the people over here and the people over there can communicate. All cross-lingual emails go through us. We don’t comment, we don’t edit, we don’t expand. Our own ideas and thoughts get nowhere near those emails. We get the low-level stuff – corporate is run by a bilingual jackass anyway. We get the shit from PR asking about ads and clarifying cultural shit. We just translate. Got it?”

“Yup.”

“Good.” He has a cubicle. I could see myself liking a cubicle like this, a cubicle of my own, safe and quiet and alone and cut off from everyone. The job is easy. It’s the people that are terrifying.

He points at a second chair and I take it.

I don’t learn much about linguistics, that day. Mostly, I learn that Levi is an ornery, sarcastic, snide little asshole whom I will never understand but will always admire for his _incredible_ sense of privacy. I’m pretty damn sure he noticed me take a pad out of my briefcase and slip it into my pocket before I headed into the bathroom – empty, amazingly enough, for the entire minute and a half I was in there – but he didn’t say a goddamn word. Didn’t ask me about my private life, either. Nothing. His work is immaculate, though. He runs through the basics – don’t translate word-for-word, if there’s a cultural reference use an appropriate one in the language it’s supposed to be translated into, blah blah blah.

“You’ll be working with me for a month, and then you’ll get your own cubicle. Your own little home-away-from-home. It shouldn’t take you a month to get the hang of this, and it shouldn’t take a month for you to become an expert, but you did fine today and I can’t expect that you’ll have any trouble with it. Since I’m above you in the hierarchy, I get phone calls, which I’ll probably make you answer unless I know it’s important. Gives you something to put on your resume, if you decide to switch jobs, and it’ll get you a leg up within the company, too, if people know who you are. Got it?”

“Yup.”

“Good. You can leave, then. I can’t think of anything else to tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

I walk out and practically run to the door, down the stairs, and out the building. I’m in my car and I’m pulling in a deep breath and closing my eyes and _existing_ , it feels so nice to just exist without other people, and I’m pulling out and driving home and it’s amazing how fast a place can become home when the alternative is work.

I can feel myself falling asleep on the way home. The excess energy falls away from me and my foot is like lead on the pedal. I’m gonna pass out while driving one day and die.

I walk in the door and pull off my jacket, tie, shirt, pants, everything. Everything goes. All of it off before I even fall onto my couch, sinking into it and wishing it would just absorb me.

I open my mouth and push words out. “Marco? You there?”

I hear him hum on the other side of the wall.

I consider dropping it. Do I really have to say anything? I don’t want to say anything. It takes energy. And it’s noise – horrible, painful noise. “Can you play _Forest Gump_?”

He hums again and there it is, the peaceful, fluttering song that sounds like flying.

He doesn’t continue, once he finishes.

I stare at the ceiling. I’m okay with that.

Maybe I should say something.

But then, I could just not.

“How was work?” He asks.

I let out a groan that, honestly, summarizes my general feelings perfectly. “Not bad.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Shit, isn’t one answer good enough? I open my mouth again and out it comes, the grating noise that hurts my ears. “Yeah. It – I just have to get into the swing of it.”

His voice is as painful as mine. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

He falls silent.

That’s the end of our interactions for that day. He doesn’t play piano again before he leaves, which is good. And then he leaves, removing all possibility of noise, which is better. The silence is calm. It doesn’t scrape against my skin or grate on my ears or make static in my brain. It just – sits. Quietly. Peacefully.

I wander around my house in silence, eat in silence, and take tiny catnaps on every surface until I give up and go to bed.

I roll around for an hour until I fall asleep.

 

Should I leave early? What if there’s traffic that I just happened to miss yesterday? Or maybe I missed it _because_ I left early.

I chew on my lip.

I’m leaving now.

It feels weird wearing a suit. I feel like I shouldn’t be this dressed-up. Levi isn’t wearing a suit today, and I don’t think he was yesterday, but he manages to look elegant anyway, whereas I would look like a rat straight out of the sewer without a suit. I can’t remember what the blonde monster in Petra’s office was wearing, but it was probably a suit. I think everyone else in here is wearing a suit, from quick glances inside cubicles as I pass. It makes sense for everyone to be in a suit. This is a job, after all. Like, a job with cubicles and shit. Still, though. I feel awkward. All it’ll take is one glance and they’ll all know I’m not supposed to be here. I have no idea how I got this job but I have a feeling it was a fluke.

Levi’s great. He doesn’t talk much, and he doesn’t insult me when I fuck up. He doesn’t smile, either, but hey, that means _I_ don’t have to smile, so it works out. I don’t have to put in the energy for facial expressions and I don’t have to bother deciphering his. And he doesn’t say a word about when I go to the bathroom for 10 minutes – there was someone in there and I couldn’t open my pad. Also, he’s kinda hot, in this weird, intimidating way. Like, Natalie Dormer-type hot. Like, I’d probably screw him if he asked, but I’d be fucking paralyzed the entire time.

Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I still have to answer his goddamn phone.

It rings every twenty minutes. Levi’ll glance at the Caller ID, and either snatch it off the hook or nod at me. And if he nods at me, I’m fucked. Fucked.

“Jean Kirschtein, Levi Ackerman’s office, how can I help you?”

I have the words imprinted in my head and I _still_ fuck up.

Levi doesn’t yell at me, though, which is nice.

I’m still exhausted at the end of the day.

Levi waves me out of his cubicle without a word, bless him, and I head out of the office filled with the same excess energy as yesterday. It’s like, the moment all my energy isn’t focused on surviving, suddenly I can breathe and move again.

Of course, it dies out the minute I get into my car, slumping down into my seat with a sigh. Off comes my jacket and tie and I’d honestly strip down to my underwear if I didn’t have to walk from my car to my house.

But then I’m out and on my way, on my way home to my couch and Marco and his piano. I drive with the radio off; even if I pass out at the wheel, it’s better than dealing with the invasive static of noise that fills my brain and prevents me from thinking.

Marco’s home when I get home, and he plays _Forest Gump_ for me again. I sigh as he plays, the pretty, airy, quiet song fluttering off his piano keys, the notes just feathers in the wind. And when he leaves, he leaves silence in his wake, unintrusive and bearable.

The next three days pass slowly. I can feel my ability to exist decreasing with every minute I spend at work. Levi notices, I guess – he stops making me answer the phone so much, anyway. Petra stops in on Friday to see how I’ve handled my first week of work, and I paste a cheery smile on my face and tell her I’m settling into the swing of things. Levi snaps that “he’s doing fine, Christ, let the boy breathe,” and maybe he _is_ noticing that noise has a bad affect on me, bless him.

And every day I come home to Marco.

I have no idea how to tell him, come Friday, that I really just want him to _shut up_. He leaves, though, and I almost pass out in relief. Marco’s turned out to be a great neighbor, and his piano playing is great, but noise is – worse. Noise is worse than he is good. Marco is accepting, trusting, and nice, from what I can tell. Noise is grating. Headache-inducing. It slows me down, exhausts me. Makes me want to pick my skin off if it goes on for too long, although I haven’t had to worry about _that_ since high school. If there’s anything guaranteed to make me cry it’s dealing with noise for an extended period of time, just because I can’t do anything else. Makes me shaky, twitchy. Leaves me running on adrenaline alone.

Five days of a 9-5 work schedule, answering the phone and talking to Levi, is killing me. I’ve never been religious, but please, God, let this get easier once I don’t need Levi anymore. I don’t want to get bad again. I don’t want to deal with that again.

 

I don’t get up til 1 the next morning. Well. Afternoon.

Marco’s playing piano again. It’s easier to stomach, today, but I can’t handle my violin. Poor, unused baby, sitting in its case, waiting for me to pick it up again.

Marco doesn’t talk much, and I love him for it. I – trust him. Not to talk. Not to hurt me.

I spend all day in varying degrees of silence, waiting for my brain to settle, trying to bring my body back to a normal state of alertness. I swear, I was built to live in a sensory deprivation chamber. Fuck this _noise_ shit. I won’t be over this for a week, and I have to go back to work the day after tomorrow. I head outside after dark, staring up at the sky for the stars that seem so quiet and impersonal, but there’s too much light pollution. I head back inside and go to sleep before midnight.

I get eleven hours of sleep and wake up disoriented and with eyes full of gunk and bullshit. I get dressed in bed, trying to prolong the time before I have to get up, but it only buys me a few minutes. I trip over fifteen things on the way into the kitchen, and curse my entire existence as I stumble towards the cereal.

I can hear Marco in the kitchen. I hope he can’t hear me. I don’t want to talk to him. Not that I don’t _want_ to. I just _can’t_.

I stay in the kitchen when he walks into the living room. He doesn’t play piano. I could kiss him. Morning noise is the worst noise.

I squeak when my _doorbell_ rings. Who the fuck is at my door? Is it Marco?  He wouldn’t, would he?

I hear their voices, though. Sasha and Connie. I hear them before I get to the door. They are loud as _hell_.

I’m greeted with a simultaneous scream of “Jeanbo!”

“Christ, guys – some warning would’ve been nice –” I mumble as they leap on me.

“Why? Are you not decent? I won’t look if you’re not!” Sasha shrieks and covers her eyes, like she hasn’t already accosted me.

“ _Yes,_ I’m –” She knows already, why am I bothering? “Jesus, would it kill you to text me or something?”

“You’ve been here for a week and haven’t texted us, we decided it was time to make sure you weren’t dead,” Connie yells at the top of his lungs.

“Shit, okay, I’m alive, could you guys just – keep it down? The walls here are thin as _hell_ , my neighbor and I have conversations through the wall sometimes.” Wrong thing to say.

“Neighbor?” Sasha says in a hushed tone.

I glance at the wall. I’m pretty sure Marco’s in there? I haven’t heard him in the kitchen, anyway. I head back and Sasha and Connie follow me.

“What’re they like? Are they nice to you? We’ll crush them if they’re not,” Connie assures me.

“His name’s Marco. He plays piano. He’s really friggin good at it, too. And he’s pretty cool. He plays piano for me after work.”

“How _is_ work?” Sasha asks, leaning on the counter and munching on my trail mix.

“It’s –” I could say it’s going well. But Sasha and Connie know me too well. They’d know I was lying. “Shitty. I hate it. But it’s not as bad as it could be. And it’ll probably get better.”

They exchange worried glances. “Is anyone there nice?”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s nice.”

“There are just a lot of people,” Sasha supplies.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Dude, there’s no shame in quitting if you don’t like it, just as long as you’ve got a backup job.”

“Right, well, I _don’t_ have a backup job, and I don’t want one. It’ll get better.” And the thought of going through the application process again, of filling out an incredible number of forms that ask me for experience, of getting phone calls asking about my experience in French and my experience translating and my training in translating, and of going to interviews and answering bullshit questions while being stared down and having every move judged –

It makes me fucking nauseous, and I’m not doing it again unless I have to.

“Sorry for snapping,” I mutter.

“It’s cool, Jean.”

I don’t friggin deserve them. Either of them. They’re caring and kind and helpful and I’m an asshole who can’t keep my shit together long enough to reassure them or even be _nice_ to them. And I will never tell them that, because they will rush to defend me, like I deserve it, and they’ll be too goddamn nice to me and think I’m looking for that.

“So how’s your job going?” I ask Sasha. She works with special needs kids, tutoring them and sometimes going to class with them so she can teach other kids how to properly interact with them. Sometimes I wonder if, if I’d had someone like her growing up, I’d have turned out okay. The rest of the time I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing that could’ve happened. I’m fucked for life.

I get her to talk for a while, though, until Marco starts playing piano.

And then they turn to look at me. “Dude. He’s _really_ good. Like, on your level, good.”

“Better. We’ve played together. He’s better than I am, no contest.” It’s the wrong thing to say. Sasha and Connie drag me, talking over my protests, into the living room.

“Play for us!” Sasha begs.

“Shh, shh,” I say absentmindedly as I try and figure out what Marco’s playing. It’s not something I know. I close my eyes and set my baby under my chin and find the beat and hope for the best.

I try to go with his music. It’s no big deal if we’re discordant in places, but it’s better without that harshness. My pretty baby sings for me, and I inhale when she does, taking a deep breath for the first time all week. She flies free and Marco supports her, guides her, and life is good.

I time it well, leading the violin up into a poignant cry before halting her in her tracks as Marco lets his piano halt. I exhale.

Sasha and Connie start clapping.

“I told you he was good,” I say with a grin, and then, to my horror, Marco’s voice comes through the wall.

“No, Jean’s good, he’s incredible –”

“You can both be good, jesus,” Connie cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah, that was _great_ ,” Sash agrees enthusiastically, looking at the wall like Marco’ll know she’s talking to him. “I can’t believe I never heard Jean play a duet in high school!”

“I barely heard him play _violin_ in high school,” Connie says with a scowl. “Apparently he didn’t trust me as he trusted you.” I aim a kick at his shin. “Dickbag, ow!”

“Ass,” I snort. “I _lived_ with her, it was a little hard –”

“So did I!” Connie interrupts.

“Not _really,_ though.”

“Close enough!”

Sasha stops us with a magnanimous hand-wave and a “Boys, boys, no need to fight over me, there’s enough of me for both of you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Sash,” I say dryly.

Connie lifts his hand like he’s waiting for a teacher to call on him. “Just gonna put out there right now that if you ever asked for an open relationship with me and Jean I’d probably be pretty okay with that,” oh my _god_ Connie, no – “he’s my best bro and –”

“ _Connie I swear to fuck_ –” I start in on him, but Sasha gets there before I do.

“I’m glad you told me, I was wondering how to broach the topic!” She says with a grin that means she _knows_ I’m about to go off on them and she’s gonna make it _damn well worth it_.

“I’m glad you approve, baby! What’d’ya say, Jeanbo?” Connie asks.

“I’m going to beat the shit out of _both of you_ ,” I yell.

“Run, Connie! I’ll hold’im back!” Sasha yells, standing in front of Connie.

“You don’t have any weapons!” Connie yells despairingly.

“But I’ve got my bare hands and that’s enough!” Sasha says, raising her fists.

“Actually, maybe _I_ should run, christ almighty,” I mutter. I’ve seen Sasha fight. It’s not something I ever want to be on the receiving end of.

Connie grins. “Yeah, you probably should. NGL, she’s pretty scary when she’s angry.”

My stomach drops. What the fuck did he just say? “NGL?” I ask cautiously.

“Not gonna lie.”

Was I supposed to know that? How much has changed since my year here?

“Did you just say NGL in real life?” Sash asks blankly.

“Maybe.”

“Why am I marrying you?”

“Because you loooovvveeeeee me,” Connie says with a sappy grin.

“Lies, all lies!” Sasha declares.

“But I said NGL!” Connie protests.

“Jean, tell him why that doesn’t matter!” Sasha begs.

Why doesn’t it matter? My stomach swoops. I have no – oh. Wait. “Because you used an internet abbreviation in real life.” Is that it?

“You mean IRL?” IRL? What the fuck is – Sasha whacks him. “Ow!”

“No! No, he doesn’t, you meme!”

“My fiancée just called me a meme,” Connie groans. “My life is _over_ –”

“Your life was over when you started using net-speak in real life, doofus!”

“What the hell is net-speak –”

“Internet speech why am I marrying you when you don’t know what –”

“Why do you keep questioning our engagement, is there something I should know –”

“I’m sorry baby I love you so much –” Sasha shrieks, and then she fucking _tackles_ Connie to the ground, and I’m fucking _snorting_ with laughter, it’s gross, but it doesn’t matter, Connie’s asking me why I’m laughing at his pain and I’m yelling _because it’s funny_ and then I’m not laughing because “Why are you making out on my floor?”

Connie unglues his mouth from Sasha’s for long enough to tell me it’s “Because Sasha tackled me!”

“Oh my _god_ do this _somewhere else_ –” I beg them, and Sasha, bless her, hears the rising panic in my voice and pulls herself and Connie together and out of my house.

A few deep breaths later, I’ve reminded myself that it’s Sash and Connie and they wouldn’t inflict that awkwardness on me. I flop onto my couch with a groan and remember Marco, poor Marco, forced to listen to their antics. “Sorry about them, Marco.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says calmly.

“No,” I protest, “they were really loud…”

“It wasn’t a problem. Really. I swear.”

I bite my lip. There’s no _way_ that wasn’t annoying. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe he feels like it would be rude to tell me? “Ok. Just –”

“Really, Jean. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”

I huff. Maybe I’m being annoying now.

“You lived with Sasha?” He asks.

“When I was an exchange student.” Living with Sasha was – interesting, to say the least. The amount of food in her house amazed me. Coming from France, with small portions and meals, Sash’s ability to eat half her pantry in one sitting was amazing. And of course, she was loud as hell. Always knew when it was time to turn it down, though.

“Sounds like you got along with her well.”

I grin. “Sasha and Connie are… two of my best friends, honestly. They know things about me that…” Well, they know I’m trans and bi. I came out while I was living here. Sasha’s mom bought me my first binder. “They knew me when…” I sigh. I’m not doing this through a wall. Marco doesn’t need to know, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. “I told them things I didn’t even tell my parents for a long time. Sasha and her family helped me out, a lot. A _lot_. And Connie basically _lived_ with them, so he knew too. The two of them basically taught me English. Brought me into their group of friends. If anyone made fun of me, Sasha beat them into the ground. Listened to me play violin and told me I was good. Convinced me to play a duet with this kid Armin, another violinist, and didn’t even complain when I wouldn’t let them listen – well, until today, but still. And when I went back to France and stopped skyping them and then basically broke off contact a year ago and barely spoke to them – I mean, when I told them I was moving here, they _volunteered_ to pick me up at the airport and move me in. I didn’t even have to ask. And here I am, being an asshole, not even calling them to thank them – shit, I should make plans with them, take them out to dinner or something as thanks – I’m a horrible friend, _fuck_. Sorry for making you listen to this, by the way, I just –” I huff. Marco doesn’t want to listen to this. I should just take my pity party upstairs.

“Work’s been hard, hasn’t it,” he says softly.

“No, not hard, just – loud.” Now I sound crazy. “Really loud. And long.”

“Loud?”

And here it is. The moment when I tell him I’m fucked up and he stops talking to me entirely. “I’m stupid sensitive to noise. Which is weird, cause I play violin, and for the most part, it’s pretty much okay. But after like eight hours of work it’s – too much. And I _wanna_ play, you know? I do. I wanna come home and play violin and I can’t because there’s something wrong with me and I can’t handle it without wanting to rip my skin off.” I heave in air. Just stop. Stop talking. Stop it. Can’t talk anymore. I’m talking myself into a frenzy and Marco’s probably trying to figure out how to say bye as fast as possible.

“What helps?”

I close my eyes. _What helps_. It’s been a long time since anyone asked that. _What helps_. Marco helps. Marco, with his pretty piano and reassurances and _what helps._ “Um. Depends on how bad it is. Sometimes just – putting in headphones and listening to music. Clears away background noise. Sometimes I just have to stare at a wall for like three hours, though. When I was little I used to go outside at night and look at the stars. We lived in the middle of these huge, wide-open fields, and it was _silent_ at night. And you could see _everything_. Stars are – they’re like a marker of silence. Loud places usually have too much light pollution. If I can see the stars, things are okay.” And now it’s time to stop. Getting too personal. “So. Marco. What was your childhood like?” Maybe I’m prying. Maybe I don’t really care.

He snorts. “Long story or short story?”

Oh, that’s promising. I grin. “I want all the dirty details. I just told you half my life story, I want yours now.”

“Um. Dirty details. Okay. Anxious kid, started having panic attacks in sixth grade.”

“Panic attacks?” I interrupt.

“Yeah. Terrifying, usually confused with a heart attack, feels like I’m gonna die. It feels like… like nothing around me is real, you know? I’m not even sure if _I’m_ real, let alone my surroundings. Feels like I can’t breathe or think. Gets hard to comprehend what people around me are saying, really hard to concentrate enough to answer or do breathing exercises. Therapy helped, a little, but for the most part my family would just sit with me and talk me through it.”

Christ almighty, I can’t talk people through a _good_ thing. “How do you talk someone through _that_?”

“Uh. My sister liked to – count. In two three four five, out two three four five. After a minute or two, I’d catch on, y’know, start inhaling when she said to and exhaling when she said to. She’d start giving me a longer number to inhale to, once I could focus on her. My brothers would all sit there for twenty minutes straight telling me I was safe, it would be over soon, I was okay, and so on. My mom used to hum to me. Not sure which way worked best, honestly, but they all worked well enough.”

Holy shit, what if he has a panic attack while I’m here? Should I do something about it? “How often do you have them?”

“Now? Hardly ever. I figured out how to feel them coming on, sometimes. Calmed myself down before I got them. Stopped fearing them so much. They slowed down when I was in high school. Nearly stopped entirely in college – except around finals. My roommates all saw them, one or two of my teachers did. My boss saw them a few times. Haven’t had one since I graduated, though.”

Oh, thank god. “Shit. Where do you work?”

“Three Walls. A ten-minute walk from here.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Any other childhood fun?” I ask.

“Mm. Well, coming out was fun.”

“Coming out?” As what?

“As gay.” Oh _hell_ yes. “Parents weren’t big on the whole homosexuality thing until it was me coming out of the closet. It probably helped that I was on the verge of tears by the time I told them, though.”

“I’m bi,” I say, testing the waters. How accepting is he of things outside of homosexuality? “My parents were the same.” Wait. “As yours, I mean. They weren’t bi.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah? What does that mean? A good yeah? That’s not helping the conversation. “Weren’t overjoyed when I came out, either. Got over it, though.” They calmed down after a few weeks when I refused to recant.

“Yeah. Same here.”

I laugh. “Well, we’re both just absolute wrecks, aren’t we.” I freeze. Shit. What if he doesn’t take it as a joke? What if he actually thinks I’m calling him a wreck?

But he laughs. “Yep.”

I search for a way to continue the conversation. I _want_ to keep talking to Marco. “Hey, at least we both grew up into functional human beings.” Why do I _ever_ open my mouth?

“I’m talking to a guy through a wall.”

I snort. I deserved that. “You make a good point.”

“On the flip side, I’m talking to a really cool guy through a wall, and I’m pretty happy about it. So I’ll take it.”

My brain stalls out. What’s he doing? He _definitely_ didn’t need to say any of that. Like, none of it. Did he just say he was happy about talking to me? Cause he didn’t have to. At all. Totally unnecessary. Shit he’s waiting for me to say something “Did you really just say “on the flip side”?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did, actually. Why, you got something to say about it?”

Fuck. Fuck. Do I say yes and then fall under questioning? Or say no and back down and sound like an idiot? “I –” Fuck I have no idea – “Oh my god I don’t know what the right thing is to say can we just pretend I never pointed it out?”

He laughs and my heartbeat slows back down to normal. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

“Thanks.” Time for me to go. “Ok. I gotta go shopping. I’ll be back later, Marco.” Not totally true, but fuck it, I’ve gotta get food.

“Have fun.”

I snort. Not likely. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

I tap on the wall and drag myself out.

Grocery shopping is a little easier this time. I know where it is and I know my credit card is working. I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with everyone who comes near and I’m pretty much okay. Things are okay. I’m doing okay. People are probably staring at my basket and my groceries and the fact that I’ve got two bags of m’n’ms but you know what? Fuck it, I don’t care. I’m gonna fucking carry my candy up to the cashier with pride.

I could always just self-checkout, I guess. But honestly, I’m terrified of those things. I’m gonna fuck up, it’s gonna yell at me, people are gonna stare at me, someone’s gonna have to come help me anyway. And then they’ll be angry at me for wasting their time. Better to go through an actual line with someone who’s paid to put up with me than someone who’s not. I feel bad for only being able to toss them a strained smile, though. They deserve a real one every so often, especially this cashier, who doesn’t blink an eye at my candy, bless him. I swipe my card and out I go. I’m a fucking _pro_ at this. I carry all my groceries out by hand and wish I fucking got a cart.

I drive home and dump my shit in the kitchen.

I’m feeling confident, today. Really good about myself. This is probably the only time in my whole life when I will have the courage to do what I’m quickly losing the confidence for.

I march out onto the porch and knock on Marco’s door.

Knock again? Wait? Marco’s in there somewhere, I think. Today’s Sunday. His day off. He’s gotta be home. I knock again.

Maybe he’s not in there.

“Marco?” And now I’m talking to the door, wonderful.

“Jean?”

“Uh… yeah.” He’s in there and not answering me. Fuck. I fucked up. All my confidence goes out the window. “I… know tonight’s your night off, right? Was wondering if you wouldn’t mind some company…” I can feel myself shrinking. This was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He doesn’t want me over. Of course not. Why would he?

“Jean? I’m – I’m so sorry.” And here’s the pity apology. I don’t wanna listen to this. “I just stuck all my clothes in the laundry, I literally have nothing but the underwear I’m wearing –” My stomach drops. Holy _shit_ he’s wandering around in his underwear – oh. That’s why he didn’t answer the door? “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe –” Something thunks against the door. “Oh my _god_ if my clothes weren’t covered in suds already I’d go pull them out.”

That. Sounds true? He really _couldn’t_ come to the door. “Heh.” I can feel some trickle of confidence returning. “Um. I’m gonna go inside now so no one can see me talking to the door. Gimme a minute.”

“Gotcha.”

I head inside and knock on his wall. “Wanna practice _Schindler’s List_?”

“Sure.”

We practice way longer than his clothes could’ve been in the washer. He doesn’t even get up to move his clothes into the dryer.

Maybe he _doesn’t_ want to see me.

My suspicions are confirmed over the next few days. He barely talks to me, barely plays piano. He says he’s transcribing sheet music. Is he really? Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. I should be okay with this. A part of me _is_ okay with it. I don’t _want_ to talk.

But I – miss him. I miss him. After talking to him for a week, I fucking miss him. My chest feels a little emptier without him. I think I have a crush on the neighbor I’ve never seen. This is why I hate my existence. Because it forces me to nap on the couch, waiting for Marco to play something that isn’t half a phrase of a song that I’ve got memorized now after downloading it and listening to it the whole ride to work. I shouldn’t bother waiting for him to finish. For all I know, this is just his way of creating space between us, and I should be grateful for it. But I’m an asshole and I’m not fucking grateful for being ignored. Marco doesn’t _get_ to play by the normal rules. I _want_ to see him face-to-face. I’ll almost definitely fuck everything up but I don’t even care, I don’t care.

Friday, I get home, ready for Marco to ignore the fuck out of me again.

But I can hear him. I can hear him breathing, _sobbing_ , like he’s being _strangled_. “M-Marco?” I stutter frantically.

He doesn’t answer.

Something hits the piano and then the _floor_. “Marco? Marco?” I bang on the wall. “Marco, _Christ_ , are you okay? Are you –” He doesn’t sound like he can answer. Oh god. “I’m coming over.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck I run outside and tug on his doorknob. It doesn’t fucking _turn_. Shit. Shit. I bang on the door. “Marco? Marco!” I rest my head on the door. Shit. Shit. Shit. Is he –

Panic attack. Is he having a panic attack? He might be dying. Maybe I should call an ambulance.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m a fucking asswad. I’m the worst person in the universe. I can’t call the police. I don’t even know what’s going on. All my practice with Levi hasn’t prepared me for calling the cops.

I head back into my house.

I’m fucking useless.

He said his sister used to count, right? I sit against the wall and listen to him struggle to breathe and hate myself, _hate_ myself, why am I so _useless_? “In, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, in, 2, 3, 4, 5…” Please be okay, Marco. Please be okay. Please be okay. Marco. Marco. Marco.

The relief I feel when I hear his breathing sync with my counting is indescribable.

He’s okay. I think.

“Marco?” I try. “I really hope the silence is you calming down and not, y’know, being dead or anything…” Fuck, fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything.

And then I hear a tap on the wall.

What the hell does that mean? “I…” _C’mon, Marco, help me out here._ “One knock for yes, two for no. You’re okay and not dying, you just don’t want to talk?”

He knocks once.

I slump against the wall. He’s okay. He’s okay. I’ll be able to talk to him again. “Oh, thank god. Do you need me to keep counting?”

He knocks twice. Okay. No more counting. “Do you want me to come over?”

Two.

I instantly feel guilty. “Yeah, sorry, I tried to get in earlier, but the door was locked… probably for the better, though. Um.” Shit. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m shit at comfort…” I cast around for anything I could do to help, but the only thing that comes to mind is music. “I could play violin, if you want?”

One knock.

I stand and find my violin.

The initial whine makes me wince. I wasn’t expecting this kind of noise right after work. But it’s Marco. He needs me.

I play for half an hour.

Each note rips through my head.

I almost cry with relief when Marco asks me to stop. _I’m sorry, Marco, I’m weak._

“I have to get ready for work,” he says.

I stare at the wall like maybe he can tell. “Are you really going to work? You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

Holy shit. “Dude, no offense, but you’re not exactly necessary to the bar’s operation. If you don’t go and don’t have a replacement it’s not like they’re going to have to shut down.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. He shouldn’t be doing this. I’ve never been more convinced of anything in my life and I can’t figure out why he’d go. “Marco, stay home. Please? I won’t even talk to you, if that’s what you want. Just – stay home. You shouldn’t go to work for seven hours, not right after a panic attack. There’s no way that’s okay. You’ve been working there for years, you said your boss saw you have a panic attack, they’d understand, right? It’s not like you’re in danger of being fired?”

“I’m going. I – need it. It’s more jarring to lose my routine than to go through with it. If it’s too much, I’ll come home, okay?”

“Christ, Marco,” I mutter. That’s not good enough.

“I gotta go get dressed.”

I close my mouth against the scream that wants to work its way out. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t go, he shouldn’t go, he shouldn’t go.

But he does.

And I go upstairs. If I stay downstairs, I’ll wait for him to come home. I need to know that he’s all right. I need to know he’s okay.

I stay awake until he comes in around midnight. Home early. Good. Thank god.

He doesn’t talk much the next day and doesn’t push me to talk, bless him. I’ve gotta save up my energy. I’m going to the bar tonight. I’m going to meet Marco. In a neutral place. Not here. I’m going to go see my pianist in real life. I’m going to meet him.

Our only interaction is a knock on the wall.

I head upstairs and sit in bed for hours on end. I’m gonna meet Marco today. I’m doing it. On my terms.

I head out around 8:30.

I find the bar easily enough. It’s a little place, but nothing to be ashamed of.

I spot Marco the moment I walk in.

Blond, square-headed, completely absorbed with his piano. It’s strange, I’ve never heard him play this piece before.

Maybe it’s because he didn’t want me to hear it?

Shit, maybe he wants to keep me away. He said I should come, but maybe he changed his mind?

I can’t do this.

He’ll never know I was here.

I can’t just walk out, though. People will think I’m weird.

So I head towards the bar, towards the only free seat next to a tall guy with dark hair. “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask him, aiming my gaze somewhere to his left.

“Nah, you’re fine.”

“Cool, thanks.” I order a tequila shot. I need to be drunk as of twenty minutes ago. Maybe I can forget I ever tried this. Fuck.

I watch Marco. He seems stiff. Still a little off from his panic attack? I can’t imagine that he’s _usually_ awkward in front of a piano. Maybe I should go talk to him. No, definitely not. He’s clearly out of it. I’d probably just distract him. He doesn’t want to talk to me. I toss my shot back and feel it work through me. I don’t drink often enough, anymore. I shouldn’t be feeling a faint buzz working through me already.

The bartender comes over with two more tequila shots. “He’s got a good repertoire,” she – he? They? – comments. The guy next to me nods. _Good_. Do they know _anything_ about him?

I slide cash for the shot towards the bartender. “I know him. He’s got the _best_ repertoire. He’s _incredible_.” And I’m too big a piece of shit for him. He’s amazing. He’s got random people commenting on his ability and I’m just a fucked-up asshole who’s kinda maybe stalking him at work.

“Probably true,” the bartender comments before sliding my money back towards me. Why the hell – “It’s been paid for.”

I blink. “Really? By who?” Does Marco know I’m here? Did he –

The bartender nods at the guy next to me.

“Hi. You’re cute.”

I look at him and, fuck it, I’m way out of his league. I can feel myself flushing. He has a _lot_ of freckles and he’s a little hunched over but in a _really_ attractive way and it’s _great_ and there is no way in hell he thinks anything of me. “You – don’t have to –” I stammer, but he shrugs.

“It’s no problem. No strings attached unless you want there to be.”

Is he serious? I toss my shot back, and as it floods into my veins, I begin to wonder if he is. “There… could be. Strings attached. I wouldn’t mind.” There’s no way he’s gonna make good on his offer.

He mumbles something about a few minutes.

I take another shot.

 

Someone’s in my shower.

I crack my eyes open. They’re dry as _hell_. They’re nearly as dry as my throat.

 _Oh my god_.

I freeze.

Someone’s not in my shower. I’m in someone’s _bed_. This isn’t my room. This isn’t my house. I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

Where the hell am I? Where the _hell_ –

I vaguely remember stumbling up stairs, grinning as someone laughs. Clothes flying off, a surprised “oh,” and then being happy. Like, orgasmically happy. Like I had sex last night. And never even spoke to Marco. And am now ass-naked in someone else’s bed. Some stranger who might not be as nice sober as drunk.

I nearly fall over when I get out of bed, but it doesn’t matter, I need to find my – all of my clothes are in a neat pile on the floor.

Did. Did my one-night-stand pile up my clothes for me?

Fuck it, I’ll figure it out later.

I pull on my underwear, shoving my packer into place, and have my pants halfway on when the _door opens the fucking door opens_ and I _squeak_.

The guy turns around and walks back out.

I recognize him.

He’s just as hot in the morning as he was last night.

At least I make good decisions when I’m drunk. Kinda.

“I’m – gonna make eggs. You can shower if you need to. I’ll make eggs for you, if you want?”

I wince at the noise. My head pounds like someone’s using it as a drum. “I – no.” Not staying. Gotta go home. Take some painkillers. Avoid Marco and all noise. “No thanks. Sorry. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time.”

I hear him head downstairs as I pull on my binder and shirt.

I could probably go out through the window, but – this guy seems like he deserves a goodbye. Because I’m a sentimental fuckwad.

I head downstairs. _Please don’t ask me to stay. Please don’t ask about my gender. Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t be mean._

He opens his mouth and I start heading towards the door.

“Um, do you – need a ride home or anything? Back to the bar? Or water?”

I shake my head, and the pounding increases. Fuck. “No, I’m fine,” I mutter. “Thanks.” I open the door. _Please just let me leave_.

“Do you need directions?”

Why is he so _considerate_? I turn towards freedom. “No, thank –”

Oh, no.

Oh no.

I step out onto the porch.

Oh no.

I turn around.

 _Oh no_.

“Are you all right?” He asks. _Marco_ asks.

Because this is my goddamn porch, I’m standing on. And a duplex only has two halves.

“M-Marco?”

He frowns. “I – yeah, how’d you know?”

“I –” I hide my face in my hands, where it’s dark and I can’t see him and his pretty face and hot-as-hell body. “I’m Jean.”

There’s a pause and I hate everything about my life.

“Holy shit.”

This isn’t my _fault_. “I – I thought you said you played piano? At the bar?” I ask desperately.

“I _do,_ I just – last night – my manager had someone else take my shift, wanted me to see if he was any good – I – oh my _god_ Jean, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

I look at him through my fingers.

He’s _staring_ at me.

Scrutinizing me. Taking me apart. I know I’m not as gorgeous as he is. I know I’m an absolute asshat. I know, I know, I know. Why is he _staring_ at me? “What?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” My voice rises and I wince.

“I – oh, shit, I’m staring, aren’t I. Sorry, it’s just – wow, I know what you _look_ like now. Holy shit. I – you probably wanna go get dressed, shower, whatever. I’m taking up your time. Just – when you’re ready, if you wanna come over, I’ll be here, okay?” I can’t breathe. What is he saying? Why does he want me to come over? What does he want from me? Why does he want me here? Why is he being nice and kind and helpful? What have I done to deserve this? I went to see him and ended up not even approaching him and screwing someone else who by some horrifying coincidence ended up _being_ him, he shouldn’t be _okay_ with that. “If – if you want. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Seriously.”

I nod. That hurts.

He waves and closes the door and I make a mad dash for my house, safety.

I hear a knock on the wall and fuck if it isn’t calming. For a moment, I can go back to having a faceless neighbor whose calming voice was his only identifying feature.

“I’ve got coffee, too.”

But he’s not that faceless person anymore. He’s tall and muscular and freckled and gorgeous _and_ compassionate and nice and maybe, maybe, he put my clothes together for me and didn’t even bring up my gender. Unless I did it last night, in which case he can’t take credit for that.

I knock back and stop thinking. Thinking hurts.

Showering is wonderful and over too fast and then I’m dressed and gulping down water and painkillers and _I can still turn back_ and then I’ve knocked on Marco’s door and this time, I get an answer.

He’s still gorgeous. It’s not _fair_.

“Ah – hi. Come in. I didn’t put the coffee on yet, I didn’t know how long you’d take and I didn’t want it to get cold.”

He’s so fucking _nice_. “Thanks.”

He puts the coffee on while I wait, seated at his kitchen table. I feel like I should be helping, but I’d be useless. And in any case, I don’t know if I _can_. Adrenaline is fading and exhaustion is setting in and the painkillers haven’t kicked in and moving, even just my eyes, is beginning to take too much energy. The coffee maker is making too much noise. Marco’s voice when he tells me he’ll be back in a second is _painful_. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

He comes back with a pad of paper and a pen, which he puts in front of me.

_would it be better if we wrote stuff on here instead of ~~tla~~ talking?_

That is exactly the moment, spot-fucking-on, when I fall in love with Marco. Head over heels. That’s it. I could spend the rest of my life with him.

_yes!_

I hand it back to him.

_How do you like your coffee?_

_Milk + sugar, I can make it tho if you tell me where it is._

_Nah I’ve got it._

_Thank you._

He goes back to the counter. I have to say something. I need to apologize. I’ve fucked up a billion times and he goes and pulls this out of his ass and saves my brain and my skin and _me_ and I need to apologize.

I start three times before I give in and go with my gut.

_~~Sorry I~~ _

_~~I didn’t mean to~~ _

_~~I didn’t know~~ _

_Sorry for acting weird earlier I was ~~kinda~~ really surprised ~~and~~ and hungover and I kinda panicked _

I pass it to him and await his judgment. It’ll be fair. I trust him.

_Don’t worry about it, anyone would’ve panicked. It was a weird situation._

I frown. That’s – too nice. I go to write that he can tell the truth, but scribble that out – I’m beginning to realize that he’s actually, honestly, seriously, just really fucking nice. I go to apologize again, but he already told me not to worry about it and I don’t want to make it awkward, so I scribble that out too. I start a billion other sentences, but he’s watching me, and there’s really nothing that I can say except _thank you_.

He takes it and pushes it back with a _you’re welcome_.

Is – is that it? I smile a little at him. It’s kind of the most I can manage, but he grins back. He gets it. It’s okay. He’s okay with it. Marco understands.

I gulp a good portion of my coffee before the last of my energy disappears, and I end up watching it swirl around in my cup. I’m so tired.

He surprises me when he pushes the pad towards me. I hadn’t even known he’d taken it. _Want breakfast? I make awesome scrambled eggs._

Uh. _If u don’t mind making it? I can probably help I think_

_I make mine with ham, cheese, and broccoli. Sound good? You can help chop, if you want._

Holy shit. _Sounds great_.

Marco works quietly.

I can trust him. I can trust him to be quiet. I could fucking kiss him. God, he’s gorgeous. I hunt down the cutting board and the knives on the counter and Marco hands me ham and broccoli.

I chop a few pieces before I nudge Marco’s arm. “Size?”

It takes him a second, but he nods an affirmation, and I keep chopping. I’m _useful_ , finding plates and helping Marco cook. When he laughs, I find it in me to grin. And it’s okay. It works. I don’t mind. I want to slump into his arms and stay there.

When we sit down, I bite into my omelet and Marco takes the pad of paper.

_What’s your favorite color?_

_Purple. Yours? These are really good btw_

We push the pad back and forth before I decide my headache’s been driven away by the painkillers and my hands are itching for my bow.

_I’m gonna go get my violin?_

Marco nods.

I grin and run home to grab my baby out of her case.

It’s a different experience, being able to watch his fingers while he plays. His wrists sit high above the keys, his spider-like fingers flickering like stars across the keyboard, and _fuck_ I’m fucked, I wanna stare at his hands all day.

So instead of ending the song where it should, I start sawing my bow across the strings, and Marco picks it up, looking up at me and making eye contact. I could literally stare into his dark eyes forever. Not fucking cool, Marco.

We speed up.

And up.

And up and up and up until we’re soaring away towards the stars and my speed metaphor isn’t even a _thing_ anymore, that’s how fast we’re going, and it’s incredible, Marco has to break eye contact with me so he can watch his fingers. I can’t stop laughing. This is _exhilarating_.

And then my baby shrieks at me and it’s time to stop.

“Shit, we’re good.”

“We are freaking incredible,” Marco agrees, and it’s fucking _adorable_.

“Freaking? Did you really just say freaking instead of fucking?”

“There’s an important difference between the two, okay? You can’t use them interchangeably.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Nope. Nope. Definitely not.”

“Dweeb.”

“Nerd.”

“If either of us is a nerd, it’s you.”

“No, I’m a dweeb.”

“That too.”

He laughs and I laugh and I can’t let it go any longer. I clear my throat.

“Um, I’m really sorry about – last night. I. Uh. Didn’t mean for our first meeting to be like – that. At all. I – was trying to not make it like that, but I – failed. Really, really badly. Um. Thanks for. Being so nice. About all of this.” I cut my stumbling apology short before it gets any worse.

“Jean? I don’t know if you remember anything, or if something bad happened, but I honestly don’t remember any of last night. Like. I don’t even remember leaving the bar. So whatever you’re apologizing for – you can just, I don’t know, pretend it was a bad dream or something. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my awesome neighbor-slash-friend whom I’ve been wanting to meet since you moved in, and you’re just as cool as I hoped you’d be. So. Our first meeting’s going great, and I’m just happy I finally met you.”

That’s sweet and all, and I’ll appreciate it later, but I don’t remember very much and certainly nothing bad and that’s not what I’m fishing for anyway. “Even with – how the morning started?” I prod.

“Even with how the morning started. Seriously.”

I run a hand through my hair. I have no idea how to broach a topic that he won’t go near. “I – found my stuff in a pile. Did I really do that while I was drunk?”

“No, I did it this morning. Figured you wouldn’t want to search around a stranger’s room for your clothes.”

He did it. He did it for me. He picked up my fake dick and put it in a pile with my binder and didn’t even fucking _mention_ it. And he did it while he was hungover and probably just as tired as I was. I can’t handle this. I groan as I drop my head into my hands. “You’re so – goddamn – _nice_! What the fuck, Marco!”

“I – yeah, I like being nice.”

“Jesus Christ I didn’t expect this,” I mutter.

“What did you expect?” He asks. Is he offended? Shit, shit, that’s not what I was going for at _all_.

I pull my head out of my hands and drag my fingers through my hair. “Not – this. You. What even _are_ you? You’re like – some – alien. From Planet Nice. In the solar system of Nice. In the Nice universe. Who the fuck wakes up hungover and spends hours being nice to the asshole they woke up with, what the _fuck_ , Marco? Are you _blushing_? That’s adorable, why are you blushing, oh my god, what the fuck?” _Did I just say he was adorable did I really –_

“Well – thank you, but – it’s no big deal, seriously.”

I huff. It’s a _huge_ deal.

“Wanna play _Clair de Lune_?”

Fuck it. Who am I to try and convince him to be meaner than he is? “Yeah.”

 

And so it goes.

I start going over his house after work. I change, grab my violin, and go to Marco, to safety. Not that my house _isn’t_ safe, it’s just – lonely. I never even _knew_ I was lonely. I never knew a time would come when I wouldn’t _want_ to be lonely. But here I am, running over to Marco’s house.

I help him transcribe _Morning Again_. It’s nice to know he wasn’t just avoiding me last week, and the more I watch him work, the surer I am of it. He gets totally absorbed in it, almost forgetting about me entirely unless I speak, flashing a happy Marco grin at me when I get something right. I’m gonna marry his smile. It’s genuine. He’s not laughing at me. He’s happy I’m here. When he says he wants me here, I can believe him. After he leaves for work on Tuesday, I go home and call Sasha. Invite her and Connie over on Saturday. She screams in my ear and hangs up so I can save up my energy for the weekend. Maybe I shouldn’t have called.

I don’t bring my violin on Wednesday, or Thursday. I can feel myself slipping again, too tired to listen to music.

I wait for Marco to get annoyed at me, tell me I’m boring.

He brings the pad of paper into the living room and writes _you can borrow one of my books if you’d like._ I write _no thanks_ , and then, before I hand it to him, a little smiley face. I don’t want him to think I’m annoyed at him or the suggestion. He smiles at me, though, and doesn’t push it, and I know he’s okay with it. Even if he doesn’t get it, he’s okay with it. I love him so much my heart aches.

He gets me through work, Friday: _Marco’s at home waiting for you, Marco’s gonna be there, Marco understands._ And then I get home and realize I can’t do it. I can’t go over there. Even just the sound of him turning pages is too much. I knock on the wall and he knocks back and doesn’t say anything and I close my eyes because I love him _so much_ he won’t even talk through the wall he knows it’s too much for me _fuck me I’m screwed_ and I head upstairs and shut the blinds and sit on my bed and stare at the pools of darkness in the corner of my room until it gets so dark I can open my blinds to see stars. And then, of course, I remember that there _are_ no stars, and that this place is devoid of all calm, and I shut the blinds and try to forget again.

I make omelets again with Marco on Saturday. I wish I hadn’t invited Sasha and Connie over. They’re going to be loud and obnoxious and I won’t be able to sit with Marco like I was looking forward to and – I should probably tell him that. “Sasha and Connie are coming over later.” Wait, can’t stop there, sounds like I’m inviting them here or inviting him there to deal with them or like I’m whining. “If they get too loud, just tell me, okay?” That’s believable enough.

“Sure, you can bring them over here, if you want,” Marco says, and I nearly chop my finger instead of the broccoli. “I mean, I’ve got work tonight, but you’re all welcome until I leave.”

“I –” I can’t let you do that, I can’t make you take them on when _I_ can’t even handle them, I – can. I can. “Really? Are you sure you’re up for that kind of commitment? I mean, they’re loud, and Sasha’s always hungry. Always. No matter what.”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

I want to leap on him. I want to kiss him, I want to make out with him like a stupid teenager, I want to slide my hands over his gorgeous body and feel him smile against my lips and also that sounds so incredibly awkward and unlikely I kinda wanna cry. I settle for: “You’re an angel, Marco.”

He waves his arms around.

What the fuck. “What are you doing?”

“Flying. Like an angel.”

Oh my _god_ that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and I love him so much it _hurts_. “Oh my god, Marco.”

“You started it!” He exclaims.

I toss a piece of broccoli at him. He catches it, which is kinda hot in a way, and throws it back at me. I catch it in my mouth.

“Damn. Nice.”

I give him thumbs up.

Sash and Connie don’t get there for a couple hours, but I run to let them in before they can start hollering at mydoor.

“Wow, gettin’ all cozy with Marco?” Sasha asks snidely, winking at me. I almost chop her head off.

“No, Marco’s getting cozy with Jean,” Connie decides.

“I’m going to sew your mouths shut,” I threaten them, but they’ve already found Marco.

“So _you’re_ Marco!”

“Sash’s been talking about you nonstop for like a year now.”

They’re swamping him. Being awkward as hell. “You haven’t even known he _existed_ for a year,” I mutter. That’s not the point. The point is they’re probably embarrassing him.

“It’s good to meet you,” Marco says anyway, and I think he’s being serious. “Jean’s told me good things about you.”

Sasha spins to face me, screaming “You _do_ love us!” as she tackles me. I’m a little better at dealing with it than Connie, though, and I catch her, supporting us both. She hugs me, and _shit_ she’s annoying but she’s one of my best friends and I’d probably kill for her, may as well hug her. After that she disappears into the kitchen, anyway, and I know that’s probably the most we’ll see of her.

Connie starts dropping hints about my violin within _minutes_ , and I give in and go get the thing. I sit on Marco’s couch instead of mine as Marco plays _Butterfly Waltz_ , apologizing to my baby for making her play notes meant for a cello, and then I play _Song of the Caged Bird_ while Marco improvs in the background. I fall into the background when he plays some other song I don’t know. Sasha and Connie are this weird, intrusive presence, here even though they’re not supposed to be.

And after a few hours, I give out. I can’t handle them anymore. They’re too much, way too much. “You guys have to leave, Marco has to leave for work soon.”

“Why don’t we just go to Jean’s –”

“We should do this again, Jeanbo, this was great!” Sash says over Connie, pulling me into a hug and then thanking Marco. Connie hugs me and fist bumps me and then they’re out.

“Kicking them out, huh?” Marco asks.

“Loud,” I respond as I take my place on his couch. He sits down next to me and I flop over and drop my head into his lap. I stress out for a second, but Marco doesn’t freak and this is Marco, I can trust him, he’s safe, and if I decide it’s too much and want to pull away he won’t be offended, he won’t trap me here. I’m safe here. I relax. Marco strokes my hair and I’ve got my head in his lap and I am so content right now it’s scary.

I whine at him when he scooches out from under me, telling me he has to work. He says I can stay, though, so I close my eyes and stay. I wave at Marco as he walks out, and then I’m up, wandering around – not going through his stuff, of course, just walking around. Figuring out where I am, what he’s like. There’s not much here, honestly. It’s – empty, almost. There are a bunch of pictures of him with his family. None of him with a boyfriend, though, and I’m not gonna lie and say that _doesn’t_ make me stupidly happy. I mean, I didn’t think he had one, not when he was buying me drinks and calling me cute. But there was always the _possibility_ that he did. Not that a lack of pictures proves anything, but still.

There really is nearly nothing in his house. No posters, no – anything. It’s not even messy. Not particularly clean – he’s not a neat freak – he just has nothing to mess up.

Except his piano.

His sheet music is a wreck, his folder unorganized. I can see marks on his keys were the oil on his fingers wore away the coating. There’s a chip on the corner. This is why he doesn’t care that he lives in a shithole, this is why his dead-end job doesn’t bother him. He lives on his piano. Loves his piano. Exists for his piano. That’s – a little sad. But then, I can’t leave my house without hating the whole world, so who am I to judge? I brush my fingers over the shiny wood. It’s not like I don’t understand his love of music.

It’s a little mind-boggling to think about how easily he let me into his world. How he let me disrupt his life and settle in.  

I go back to Marco’s couch eventually. I’m just gonna sit here for a few minutes, and then I’m leaving. Don’t wanna _still_ be here when he gets back at two in the morning. I lie down and I can smell him, and I take a deep breath or two and then someone’s saying “Jean?” And I sit straight the fuck up, holy _shit_ , “Sorry, I can’t believe I –”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he says with a little smile. He looks relaxed. Peaceful. It’s okay. I didn’t do anything wrong. “Do you want to stay here?” Oh my god, I could _live_ on his couch. “Hell, you can share my bed if you want –” Nope, nope, nope, nope. No. Oh god. I think about it and my stomach drops. There’s no way.  Sorry, Marco, I love you, and I don’t want to refuse and offend you, oh god, but I don’t know if I can – just – “That’s too much, isn’t it,” Marco realizes. “You can go.”

I chew on my lip. “I – think I’m gonna go home. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind you being here when I’m not.”

“No, I –” was apologizing for not staying with him. But maybe he doesn’t want me here anyway. Then again, maybe he’s just being nice. “Thanks.”

He grins at me. I need to calm the fuck down. He’s not being mean. He’s not angry. “No problem.”

“Marco?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh.” Fuck, what am I doing? It’s 2 in the morning, I shouldn’t be awake, I can’t _think_ this early, but – “Can I hug you?”

“I –” no, he’s gonna say no, I just made things awkward – “Yeah, yeah, of course!”

Holy shit I can hug him, I can – how the hell does one initiate a hug, how am I supposed to do this, what do I do, what does he do, what if I hug too tight or make this awkward too fast or fuck things up or –

He steps forward and wraps his arms around my shoulders, and that’s good, that’s good. He rubs little circles into my back. Tension drains from my muscles and I sigh as I wrap my arms around him. He’s warm, and strong, and comforting, and I kinda just want to stay here for a while.

Of course, that doesn’t last long, and the normal fear sets in: what if he won’t let go? What if he pouts at me for letting go too soon? What if – and then he’s squeezing me, he wants me to stay here, oh _god_ – and then he – lets – go. He lets go. He wanted me to stay and he let me go anyway.

I love him so much.

I grab my violin and say goodnight. When I get into my house, I knock on the wall. He knocks back. I set my violin on the couch and go upstairs, to my own bed, cool and empty and safe and mine, and I spread out and fall asleep faster than I ever have in my life.

I wake up with the knowledge that I’ve got one week left until I get my own cubicle and like maybe 2 phone calls a day. I bounce out of bed, shower, dress, and float on over to Marco’s house. “Only one week til my trial period is over!”

“Trial period?” Marco says with a grin.

“Work.” Did I not tell him? “I’ve been working with like, eighty other people, because for the first month they can’t trust me to translate ads and write emails on my own, apparently. After that, I get my own cubicle, and only like two phone calls a day, and I barely have to talk to people, and I’ve only got a week left of this before I get to that and I am _so excited you have no goddamn idea._ ”

He hums. “Thing’s’ll be way easier for you once you’ve got space to yourself, right?”

I can feel myself practically vibrating with excitement. “Yeah! Shit, Marco, I’ll be able to play violin again. Properly. For real. And I’ll be able to focus and _do_ things, Marco, like a _real human being_.”

“We should celebrate.”

Horror zaps through me. “No, it’s not that big a deal, shit –”

“Not like a party,” he cuts in, and instant relief floods me. “Just – there’s someplace I wanna take you. I think you’ll like it.”

I’m instantly wary. I don’t trust anyone who thinks they know me. “Where?”

“Mm. I don’t wanna ruin the surprise. But I promise, it’s only an hour’s drive away, you won’t have to pay a thing, it’s not loud, there won’t be anyone there, and you won’t have to do much. I’ll drive, too. We’ll have to go at night – Saturday night, remind me to tell Hanji I’m taking the day off – and I’ll be wide awake. Won’t even have to get a hotel room or bring anything.”

He sounds like he’s put way too much thought into this. I’m suspicious. “This sounds like something you’ve been planning.”

“It – kinda is. But only since, like, ten hours ago.”

I can feel tension setting in. “Are you _sure_ it won’t be loud? Cause like, just because _you_ don’t think something’s loud doesn’t mean _I_ won’t think something’s loud.”

“It should be dead silent, actually.”

“Are we going to a cemetery?”

“That – would’ve made things a lot easier, actually. But no.”

How would a cemetery make something easier? “Marco, are you taking me somewhere to kill me and bury me?”

He laughs. “That sounds really bad, doesn’t it. No. No, I’m not, I swear.”

Where the hell is he taking me?

“Jean – can you trust me? I – sorry, I know that’s a lot to ask when you’ve barely known me for a few weeks, but – I honestly think you’ll be all right with this. And if you’re not, we can leave. Immediately. Just say the word. I won’t be offended. I won’t be annoyed.”

He knows me so _well_. I can feel my worries dropping away, disappearing like nothing. Marco knows what I need, he knows what I want.

Except.

I can feel tension flaring up again, and I guess Marco can see it.

“Nevermind, we don’t have to go. Forget I –”

“No, no, I – I trust you,” I assure him. “It’s just – that – I – um.” I give up. “How long will we be there?”

“Uh. There’s no specific time frame? We could stay for five minutes or five hours, it’s kind of up to you.”

“And it’s an hour away?” I check.

“Yeah.”

I bite my lip. An hour there plus an hour back… I can get about five hours out of a pad, on the first day of my period. Three hours. “See, the thing is, if… things… are normal… I’ll be on my period.”

“Your – oh.” He stares at me. I shrink. He’s probably grossed out. Didn’t need to know that. I shouldn’t have told him, fuck – “Well, uh, how long is best for you, then? We can stop somewhere on the way back, and you can – uh – change your – pad? Tampon? You can tell me whatever you’re most comfortable with, honestly. If you wanna put it off, we can totally do that too – and, I mean, like I said, no one’ll be there, so – you won’t have to worry about that.”

I have to respond. I have to respond at some point. Shit, though. Marco is okay with this. He didn’t say a single mean word. He’s literally the best boyfriend I’ve ever wanted to have. “Um. I’ll – be fine if we only stay a few hours.” And then the other half of the problem comes to mind, because nothing’s easy. “Thing is – it’s – kinda difficult for me to use public bathrooms? People tend to notice if you open a pad in a guy’s bathroom.” Going to the bathroom in public is the actual worst thing and I fucking hate it.

“Jean? We can totally postpone it. Or we just don’t have to stay that long. We could get a motel room. Um. All else fails, it’s ten minutes away from my mom’s house, if I call and tell her we’ll be around there she’ll leave the door open, we can stay there for the morning. She’ll even make us breakfast. All my siblings are out of the house now, and I can take the attention off you, you won’t have to talk to them.”

Oh god. Oh god. I’m fucking up all his plans _and_ he’s going to miss out on seeing his family for _me_. “I – I don’t want to stop you from seeing your mom.”

“Jean, I’m serious. This is up to you. I could see my mom every weekend if I wanted.”

Oh god. Is he being honest? Am I allowed to take him seriously?

It’s Marco.

I trust Marco.

He tells me the truth.

It’s up to me. And I know what I want, at least. “I’d rather just stay for two or three hours, if that’s okay,” I ask selfishly.

He grins. “Sounds perfect to me!”

There’s no way. “A-are you sure?”

“Yeah!”

There’s no way. There’s no _way_.

“Jean, do you mind if I give you a hug?”

Do I mind if he gives me a hug, he asks. Like I would turn him down. I shake my head and he’s there and enveloping me in his warmth and strength and I love him so much, I love him _so_ much, he’s everything I could’ve ever asked for and _I’m not dating him_. I’m not selfless enough for this. I’m a fucking asshole. He should know, he should know so he can stop giving me hugs and being so nice and leading me on, but fuck if I’m gonna tell him. “Marco?”

“Mm?”

“You’re – I –” Again, there are no words for what I want to tell him. I give up. “Thank you.”

“No problem, Jean.”

I spend the rest of the day attached to him. I never want to let go of him. If he offered now to let me sleep in his bed I’d take up the offer without a second thought. I’d probably be a self-conscious terrified wreck the whole time, but I’d fucking do it.

I have to leave his side for work, but I come home to him. I come home to hugging him and falling asleep on him and smacking him and maybe staring at him when he’s not looking. Marco likes to rub my neck, I notice. It feels great. I could stay with him forever. I don’t even knock on my way in anymore. I just enter. Like it’s my house.

Friday night I put on a pad like it’s battle armor and wrap a towel around my bed and pass the fuck out, terrified of what I’ll wake up to and terrified that Marco will have horribly misjudged the nature of the thing he’s taking me to and hopeful that Marco _hasn’t_ misjudged it.

Saturday morning I wake up with the horrible knowledge that I am bleeding.

I _hate_ this. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I’m grossed out the whole time I shower, I’m grossed out the whole time I get dressed, gross, gross, gross. Period underwear is gross and stained. Pads are gross and about to be stained. Pants are not gross but might get stained anyway. I pull on a pair of boxers over my underwear. If I bleed on Marco’s couch I’m fleeing the Milky Way. Sweatpants are thick and not easily bled through and I don’t care if it’s hot, I pull on a sweatshirt anyway because it’s hot but I’m not and I want the comfort. I pop like three painkillers before I head over to Marco’s.

Marco doesn’t comment on it. Good. If he did I’d have stepped on him.

“Want tea instead of coffee? I’ve got. Um. Chamomile? There’s some raspberry stuff in here, too.”

Eugh. Fuck it. “Coffee, please.” I know coffee makes it worse. I know and I don’t care. If it’s bad already, why should I give up coffee? My stomach hurts. I count my breaths.

“Got it. Eggs?”

 _Eugh_. Just the thought of eggs makes my stomach churn. Eggs and their eggy smell. “Do you have, like, cereal? Or something that doesn’t smell?” That makes it sound like I’m unhappy about eggs normally. “Sorry, it’s just… eggs…” and probably like fifty other things – “aren’t sitting well with me. Today.”

“Mini Wheats?” He suggests.

“Perfect.” Scentless, practically tasteless. I am _so_ okay with that.

“Want painkillers?”

God, I love Marco. No comments, just care. Bless him. “Already took some. Waiting for them to kick in.”

I end up lying with my head in Marco’s lap. He doesn’t ask much of me, just reads a little while I lie there worrying that I’m bleeding through onto his couch and riding waves of cramps. I go home to change my pad, and when I come back and lie back down, Marco doesn’t say a word, just resumes his absentminded massage of my neck. I doze off a little. I don’t think he notices.

“Are you sure you’re up for tonight?” Marco asks.

I glance at the clock and realize with a shock that it’s already almost time to leave. Jesus. “I’m going.”

“Jean, you don’t have to –”

“I’m going,” I snap, a little harshly.

Marco runs his hair through my hair. “All right.” I think he’s trying to sooth me. It works.

I go home one more time to change my pad. I give up and put on one of my extra thick ones. Just in case. And then I pop two painkillers.

Marco meets me outside.

He’s holding towels.

“Towels? Are we going swimming?” I ask apprehensively. There is no way in hell he could get me near an ocean or a pool or literally any body of water, honestly.

“No. No. Definitely not.”

I breathe again. “I was about to smack you,” I laugh. “Like, shit, _sharks_.”

“What about them?”

“They’re attracted to blood!”

“Oh! Oh my _god_ no, we’re not going anywhere near the ocean, I promise.”

“Oh, thank _god_.”

It’s nearly dark out; we’re out of the city quickly enough, and there’s light over the horizon if I look hard enough. I barely get to watch it disappear before I pass out. God, I’m so unnecessarily _tired_.

When I wake up, it’s to a confusingly empty and nature-filled landscape. “Where are we?”

“Uh. Farmland and forests, mostly. But there’s a place that was bought by developers like, two weeks ago – a new strip mall is supposed to go up. But they don’t have any permits yet, so it’s just this enormous, untouched, grassy, overgrown field.”

Why does any of that matter? “Why are we here?”

He just grins at me. Paranoia starts to creep in, just this vague-ass terror that he could _totally_ murder me and dump the body and no one would ever know. “Okay so I was kind of joking, but seriously. Are you planning on burying me here?”

“Just wait a minute, okay?”

I hum. He could still murder me. But this is Marco. “I trust you.”

He smiles. Because I’m being led willingly to my death? Damn. I wouldn’t even go out with a bang. Just a poof.

And then he pulls over to the side of the road.

I get out of the car.

There is _nothing_ here.

Yup, killing me and burying me here. This is it.

Marco comes around with the towels, and I make some sort of connection: “Are we – lying here? Marco, what the –”

“Shh. Look.” He points up.

Probably distracting me so he can slit my throat.

I look up anyway.

Instantly, I’m lightweight, free, peaceful. My mind empties. I feel like I could fly away. “Oh my _god,_ Marco.” I whisper. “It’s _beautiful_.” The stars stretch above me, and there are _so many_. The more I look, the more I see. They’re _everywhere_. I can barely pick out constellations, there are so many stars.

“Pick a place to lie down. The field is yours.”

I walk determinedly out to the center of the field. “Here.”

Marco hands me a towel and we lay them out, side-by-side, and lie down.

I can see _everything_.

It’s so beautiful. It’s literally everything I’ve missed since I moved here. I could die here and be okay with it. I don’t even feel the grass beneath me. There’s only stars.

Stars, and Marco’s breathing.

Doubt begins to creep in.

Why did he do this? What is he looking for from me? Am I supposed to give him something special back? Is there a chance, however tiny, that he likes me like I like him? Is there any point in asking?

It’s Marco. It’s okay.

“Marco, why did you –” No. I try again. “What are you –” Also no good. “What’s the point of this?”

“Nothing. No point.” My heart collapses. “No strings attached.” My heart thumps loudly. “I just – wanted to do this for you.”

I gulp so loudly he can probably hear it. There’s no way he _forgot_ what he said at the bar, the night we met. Is there? Is he just talking about more sex? “What if.” Why am I doing this. “I.” I’m ruining everything. “Was okay.” May as well fly into the stars now. “With the strings?” My soul leaves my body. “If they were to be attached?” I slowly move my hand down between us. It’s there if he wants it and nothing weird if he doesn’t.

“Jean –”

I’m not looking at him. I’m not doing it. Nope. No way. I don’t need to see my rejection.

His fingers touch mine. So gently. Lightly. Like my hand is made of piano keys.

I curl my fingers around his.

My heart explodes into a billion pieces, shining, burning, _full_ , and when I look over at him to say something – _I love you_ , maybe, or _thank you_ , or – I can’t get anything to come out.

“I’d give you the stars if you were willing to accept them,” he murmurs, and it’s _so fucking romantic and considerate I’m gonna die_. I also have no idea how to answer. My response comes out awkward as _hell_ : “I’ll take the strings _and_ the stars, then.” I push myself closer to Marco and curl into his side. It’s different from what it was on Marco’s house. It means something.

I should say something.

But as usual, _thank you_ is the only thing I can think of.

But this time it’s not enough. English isn’t enough. The language of my childhood, the language that brought me through pain and happiness and love and hatred and humiliation and pride, is the only way I can express it. “ _Merci,_ Marco.”

“ _De rien_ , Jean.”


End file.
